


lure of dead faces

by terrasper



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AgriCorps, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bandomeer, Drabble, Fix-It, Multi, kind of, will maybe become a long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrasper/pseuds/terrasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later, the war reaches even barren Bandomeer.</p><p>-</p><p>(AU where Obi-wan was never Qui-Gon's padawan.)</p><p>(p.s: for those who want to skip my attempt at worldbuilding, skip right to chapter 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> All right so this is my first Star Wars fic. I thought I'd have some fun with imagining what Obi-wan could have become if Jinn had indeed rejected him. This fic is me having fun with wish fulfillment. I have no beta, so any mistake or whatnot is my fault.
> 
> This fic was inspired by [esama's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama) [Lost Reflections](), [aidava's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aidava/pseuds/aidava) [A Patrician with Mud on his Boots](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5837758/chapters/13454005), and [Vee017's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vee017/pseuds/Vee017) [Sun Kissed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/256946/chapters/401006).
> 
> These three are awesome authors (with stories full of Bandomeer feels).
> 
> I will add tags and maybe change ratings as the fic progresses. Polite feedback is welcome!

1.

Exactly a year to the day after Qui-Gon's final, damning judgment, Obi-wan Kenobi huddles atop the roof of the sturdy metal habitation structure he’d unofficially claimed as his. The old outpost sat squarely in the middle of what Obi-wan had come to think of as his land. Mostly barren land dotted by the tenacious little plants and shrubs he'd painstakingly helped to grow, untidy and sparse, but growing all the same. They softened the ground where Obi-wan could not, not yet as adept in his use of the Living Force as the more experienced Jedi Agriculturists. Nonetheless, he would soon be able to ease some crops and saplings into growth and restore some life to the hard dirt.

It is hard, thankless work. The land stretched out of sight for kilometres around his small home, dry and sterile in the sun and eerie under Bandomeer’s red moon at night. Some of the plants were nocturnal, and responded more favourably to the moon and the cooler temperature. It was they that had him awake, on the roof, done for the night but unable to sleep. Kept awake by bitterness and crushing loneliness. By failure. 

_There is no emotion, there is peace_. The words echo in his mind, in the Force, so much more vast now, here, where his work is to open himself to the chasm, a medium to soften the earth. And try as he might, emptying his mind - his frustration and hopelessness and anger - into the force feels like screaming into an echo chamber. He hears and feels only himself, a whistling in his own ears. Deafening. 

Obi-wan wonders if this is what Qui-Gon saw in him, and resolves to try harder, to empty his mind. If nothing else, it will give him a little peace.

 _Do or do not. There is no try_. 

And he had all the time in the worlds.

\---


	2. Part 1.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Second chapter is up! Thank you the people that commented and left kudos! I'm still trying to get the worldbuilding out of the way, so this fic is still slow going.
> 
> P.S I was unsatisfied with how chapter 2 ended so I made really minor changes, this update is not a new chapter sorry :(

Before his arrival to Bandomeer, Obi-wan had often dreamt of fire and death and bright yellow eyes. Sometimes the eyes peered out from a red, tattooed face, sharp toothed and accompanied by the hum of sabers clashing. Other times, and more often as he aged, the eyes stared out at him through tears and sweat, distorted by heat rising from the unseen ground of the dream. 

The first time he’d dreamt - he’d been quite young, and quite badly shaken from what had certainly _felt_ like a nightmare - Obi-wan had scurried to the nearest adult, chubby cheeks wet with tears. A young jedi knight had awkwardly dried his tears and sent him back to the dorms, instructing him to release his fear into the force. Similar attempts to seek comfort, if not reassurance, yielded similar results, and his very young self had resolved to keep the dreams to himself.

It was not until he was older that he ventured into the library and furiously researched reoccurring dreams, waking visions, and persistent feelings of _knowing_ things would happen. From old texts he'd learned of future sight and the unifying force, and that most visions were merely that, visions. What was seen often never came to pass. 

He’d left the athenaeum feeling both relieved and disappointed. For years, he had puffed himself - and his unease with the situation - out of proportion, only to deflate once the truth was laid clear. 

Obi-wan had scolded himself, after, for his fleeting feelings of self-importance, and resolved to act only in a manner befitting a proper Jedi. _There is no passion, there is serenity_. He’d crushed the seedling feeling before it could take root. (He'd tried). 

Nevertheless, the future sight continued to manifest itself in little things, such as knowing what his teachers would say before they'd uttered a word, or the disturbing feeling of déjà vu when training with his fellow initiates. Eventually, Master Yoda had noticed his prescient sight, and had encouraged his ability in deciphering meaning from the jumbled images, sounds and impressions. 

Obi-wan wonders if this attention, however well-meaning, had hastened his failure. He remembers how thrilled he had been at garnering the attention of Grandmaster Yoda himself. How he’d felt _special_ , confident in his future. The relentless perennial plant thriving under the attention. Casting a growing shadow. 

He feels Yoda should have left well enough alone. (And he knows in himself that a proper Jedi would never hold others responsible for their failures, he _knows_ this.)

But now there is him - not-a-Jedi (not even a padawan) - and his struggling plants and Bandomeer’s red, looming moon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, right. I'm going explore a bit of what goes wrong within the Jedi order such as: indoctrinating children basically, denying what could be healthy feelings and denying Jedi ways to healthily deal with the feelings (I'm pretty sure even the force can't fix issues), prioritizing and (unwittingly) glamorizing (though that might be outside influence too) certain branches of the Order and then making children feel like shit about themselves when they don't end up a Padawan. Etc. 
> 
> Feel free to share ideas in the comments!


	3. Part 1.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 up! Finally. Trying to shake off the worldbuilding in this one.
> 
> Thank you all once again for all the kudos!
> 
> (Just a reminder that this fic is pure wish angst fulfillment)

Obi-wan wipes his face on a corner of his tunic, and mostly succeeds in smearing earth on his forehead, rather than wiping away the sweat now stinging his eyes. Despite Bandomeer’s cool nights, ploughing even a small amount of hard earth by hand and tool is sweat-inducing, exhausting work. Exhausting enough to empty his mind of thought and feeling.

Which is exactly what he wants.

The moon hovers in the sky, waned to a thin sliver like a red scar in the dark. Its light is enough to see by, and Obi-wan uses it to stomp around hauling sacks of easy to grow crop seeds. The crops grown from the seeds would be a particularly hardy type of edible corn; they would be able to grow easily in spite of the desolate earth and barely-there Living Force. After being harvested, their remains would enrich and tender the earth and allow Obi-wan to grow more fragile plants. The process would be repeated until the entirety of his assigned land thrived with the Living Force.

It would take time. Much time. But it was a start.

Obi-wan rips open the first sack, allowing the seeds to spill onto the ground. He stares for a second, breathes in, then out, and with the slightest frown of concentration he wills the seeds into a slow, controlled flow into the air. In the dark, they look like tendrils rising from the ground, three and then six when they split towards the furrows Obi-wan had painstakingly carved out. A little more focus and he feels the individual seeds slide against each other, a rustle in the Force like an itch. And then pressure, as the Force drives the seeds into the softened ground and shifts the earth to cover the thousand tiny hollows. 

A thousand tiny beginnings that he eases into seedlings with the force. 

Obi-wan channels the Force into the small plants for a few more moments, strengthening them against Bandomeer’s climate, before slowly decreasing its flow to a stop. He inhales deeply and lets his breath whoosh out, trudging over to sit on a makeshift bench of stacked seed sacks. His body feels like a badly compressed force crystal, charged but liable to burst. He threads his shaking hands together, and blinks away the sharp brightness of the world post-force, eyes tingling. Immersing himself into the Living Force, no matter how briefly, always exhilarated and drained him. He’d thought the effects would dim over time, as his body adapted to constant, acute force use. Instead, every moment of its use sharpened the world to bursts of color and force-impressions. Where there had once been the unsettling familiarity of his future sight and ominous dreams of fire, there was now an almost unbearable _awareness_. Obi-wan had woken, more than once, to find his small bedroom turned inside out, himself twisted in his blankets and mattress displaced halfway across the small space. He’d done away with the bed’s metal frame after the first instant of awareness, after having woken up from a dream of _presence_ to find himself tumbling from his mattress onto the floor. 

The framework of the bed a twisted, warped form in the darkness of the room.

He hadn’t told anyone, sticking to reports of his progress with the land when attending the monthly AgriCorps gathering. Obi-wan had been convinced meditation would resolve his _problem_. He is still convinced. He still tries. _Do or do not, there is no try_. Force, he really would have made a terrible Jedi. 

_One that wastes moonlight_ , Obi-wan thinks, and shakes himself out of his funk. He glances at the moon, still the brightest glow in the sky. There was still time enough to dig enough furrows to sow at least two more sacks of seeds, and then enough time still to wash away the dirt and make tea before the sun rises. 

He rather thinks he will ask the AgriCorps council to allow him the sowing and harvest of nighttime crops. 

Obi-wan nods to himself and hops up off his improvised seat to fetch his shovel. With constant use and practice, soon he would be strong enough to gouge furrows into the earth with the Force itself. When awake, that is.

At least he has something to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to interpret the force as a psionic entity. So. Psychic powers. I am also of the opinion that the force is like a muscle, constant use strengthens it, sharpens it, and all that.
> 
> (I know about the midichlorian thing, but for a guy with so much of them Anakin didn't seem any stronger force push-wise than any other Jedi. I mean, Obi-wan matched him. Unless midichlorians only meant a strong connection to the force? So many ways to interpret that).
> 
> As you can see there is an ongoing moon and night thing in this fic.


	4. Part 1.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Thanks again to all those leaving kudos and hits! It means a lot! Comments are welcome as always.
> 
> Note: In the spirit of speeding things along a bit, I will be separating the fic into time-skips. The first four chapters (this one included) happen when Obi-wan is 13-14 ish, with the rest of the chapters following that same pattern (for example, chapters 5-8 may happen when Obi-wan is 24 or something). Because as much as I would love to, writing twenty-fours years of time in a fic is beyond me. And way beyond my patience.

Twenty-seven days after the idea had popped into his head, Obi-wan had returned to his modest home with his little service speeder loaded down with nocturnal potted strains and various bags of nighttime crop seeds. The daytime venture had thrown off his sleep schedule and nighttime routine, and he'd slugged through the following nights with eyes squinted in fatigue. Nonetheless, he’d been filled with a sense of accomplishment he hadn't felt since his days as a Temple initiate. 

As he'd expected - and hoped - the AgriCorps council had acquiesced easily to his request, and he'd found himself the sole Agriculturist tasked with the growth of nocturnal crops and vegetation. A not inconsiderable task, certainly, but the responsibility and tangible goal helped sooth the feeling of being unmoored and _hopeless_ that had dogged him since arriving on Bandomeer. 

It had been easy to convince them (not that they'd put up a fight, no one wanted the night shift), and having someone specifically oversee the night crops afforded the day timers much needed rest and peace of mind, as well as undivided attention to their own tasks. Everyone was satisfied, all things considered.

Obi-wan rather thought that his fortune seemed to be improving, if not in the direction he would have prefered. 

Now if only he could stop bleeding Force everywhere in his sleep.

\---

Control control _control_.

The peacefully floating helix of seeds collapses to the ground, nowhere near their furrows, scattering seeds everywhere. Obi-wan scrubs a hand over his face, feeling an oncoming headache throb behind his eyes. His itchy, tingly eyes. 

He'd hardly slept the previous day, tossing and turning as he had. His prescient sight had chosen a particularly taxing twenty-four hour period to return, keeping him awake with visions of falling asleep, of all things. When he’d finally managed to drift off, he’d immediately jerked awake with his heart in his throat, blaster fire and explosions ringing in his ears. It had been a spectacularly undignified moment. He’d flailed off his mattress and torn a chunk off his pillow with the Force before the brief disorientation had worn off.

And so, Obi-wan thought glumly, the theme of the night was _control_. 

Control of the Force, as he raises the seeds into the air once again and carefully splits a furrow into the earth with barely a thought. He would never become the expert lightsaber duelist he’d always dreamed of being, but Obi-wan did find a measure of pride, achievement and comfort in his ever increasing Force abilities. He could crush rocks and toil the earth without breaking a sweat, with only the scarcest concentration. He could ease a large area of seeds into seedlings, and most recently, seeds into saplings and then young trees. 

His control of the Force was constantly improving. 

But.

The control of his _body_ , he thinks, as he rubs away the peculiar feeling of dilation in his eyes again, seems to be a losing battle. He’d shot up a few inches in an atrociously short amount of time, and his limbs ached as a result. He’d been short and slim as an initiate, but now he was less short and positively gangly.

An _adolescent_ , Obi-wan thinks, nose wrinkling. His body had started to grow hair in _places_ , too. And his skin was perpetually greasy. He was always hungry, and sullen. When he’d ventured to the closest village to resupply, he’d caught the Meerian food vendor hiding an amused smirk behind a chubby hand. His resulting scowl had sent the native into a loud bout of guffaws.

“You look like sad nexu,” the vendor had laughed, and had sent Obi-wan on his way with burning cheeks and a conciliatory buttermilk biscuit. 

In the vendor’s defense, Obi-wan thinks, absentmindedly folding the empty seed sacks, he _does_ look entirely unkept. Dirt everywhere, too-short clothes, hair a copper mop around his too-skinny face. He hardly resembled the pristine initiate that had first come to Bandomeer. 

The farthest thing from a Jedi, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered when writing this chapter that Bandomeer has no moon. Too late for that though. 
> 
> The nexu comment is my indirect shout-out to [aidava](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aidava/pseuds/aidava)'s gurrcat Obi-wan. (Awesome fic).


	5. Part 2.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is up! Took me forever to write it.
> 
> Once again, thank you all for the kudos and comments!
> 
> (I have no beta and so any mistakes are mine)

Obi-wan’s first glimpse of a Jedi in more than ten years has him ducking back inside his home, curling himself into as small a target as possible as blaster fire explodes against the outside walls of his dwelling. He hears and feels the concussive boom of cannons laying waste to years of work, feels his plants burning and dying under blasts of plasma and trampling feet. The telltale hum of a lightsaber accompanies the rattling rapport of Republic blaster rifles, alarmingly close to his closed door, and getting closer with every retaliating drone of enemy carbines. Obi-wan flinches as the wall he huddles against shakes through another round of fire, and he numbly mulls over the idea that if the enemy fire doesn’t mow him down, the slowly collapsing skeleton of his home certainly would. He sincerely doubts anything of his will escape the highly unanticipated conflict unscathed, himself included, even if his house doesn’t crush him. 

_At least you’d die as you lived_ , he thinks, cringing, as a popping whoosh decimates dozens of bloodflowers, their deaths like pinpricks in his head. _Buried in dirt as the Jedi banish evil, civilian casualties and all tha_ \- 

Obi-wan dives through the door just as the wall he'd been huddled against blows inwards, his ears ringing a shrieking sense of _wrong_ , the Force urging him to his feet and _away_. Stumbling, and then running blindly, uphill. He hears shouting, feels the heat of blaster fire, and his heart pounds in his throat for every near hit. But his legs never falter, the unnatural strength of the Force lending him speed, stamina, and he crests the top of the hill barely out of breath. He throws himself behind a high pillar of rock, disoriented, cushioned by grass and flowers he'd nourished and cared for.

The shouting and shooting seems further, now. Obi-wan hopes the enemy soldiers found him a paltry target and set their sights on bigger game. The Jedi and Republic soldiers were far better equipped for battle than he, anyways. Unless they were looking for an easy target...

 _And this is why you aren't a Jedi_ , Obi-wan thinks, gulping air. His heartbeat slows, slowly, and the nausea caused by having his heart _practically wedged up his throat in fear_ recedes. The Force pounds at his temples, whiplash rooted in distress and adrenaline. Obi-wan leans back against the rocky pillar, digs his fingers in soft grass, and feels the soothing energy of the Living Force crawl up his arms, a balm on his mind and small scrapes and sores. He basks in it, for awhile.

\---

A thin spike in the Force has Obi-wan jerking to awareness. Mindful of making noise, he carefully pushes himself to standing behind the rock. The noises of battle have quieted, and up on his hill, it seems almost as if no battle had taken place. There is silence.

Obi-wan peers around the rock, taking stock of his surroundings. In his disoriented dash away from the fight, he'd climbed the steep hill a few minutes from his home. His home. Now a small, smoking husk, surrounded by yards of burning crops and small trees. Years of work, destroyed. He blinks away the prickling in his eyes, noting the corpses, both Republic and enemy, dotting the area. He sees no characteristic Jedi robes among the blackened plants.

There is no enemy, but no allies either.

Taking a deep breath, Obi-wan steps around the pillar, intent on salvaging what he can from his small homestead. His knees are weak from his run, and the trek down the hill is a slow one. He stumbles and trips on the thick stalks of the bloodflowers carpeting the hill and the flat plain unoccupied by crops. Their white petals gleam in the light of the moon and they turn their glinting faces towards him as he walks. They’d always been partial to him, Obi-wan muses, always eager to feed off the Living Force and grow. 

The grass and flowers are increasingly charred and missing in patches as he approaches his burned home, turning black as coal as he reaches the beginning of his crop fields. The enemy soldiers, whoever they had been, had left nothing behind but scorched earth. Scorched earth and dead bodies. Obi-wan feels sick as he steps around the body of a Republic soldier. The fight had removed all traces of the Living Force that had, barely hours before, thrived in the crops around his house. And all that remains of his house is the gaunt metal structure, three walls still standing. The fourth caved in. Almost taking him with it. 

In the light of Bandomeer’s vast moon, the gutted remains of his house look cadaverous, the remains of his crops like blackened bones peeking out of the soil. Obi-wan swallows, steps closer, and ignores the sinking feeling in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Obi-wan is 25ish in this part. And also a civilian. No fighting for him right now.
> 
> Also every star wars fic seems to have sentient plants somewhere. So here. Creepy flowers.


	6. Part 2.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so sorry for the long wait but I had said I was gonna revamp this chapter so here it is.

2.

The hand that shoots out of the shadows and fists in his tunic is entirely predictable and utterly terrifying. Obi-wan flails away from his charred doorway, barely gaining an inch of leeway before the hand tightens and yanks him through. The Force rattles nauseatingly in his head as his assailant throws him to the ground and kicks him onto his belly, gloved hand knotting in his hair, knee digging into his spine. The knee crushes his chest into the ground, obstructs his breathing, leaving him fighting for air. Obi-wan thinks wildly of struggling, panic bitter in his mouth, but his body is numb, unresponsive. The lack of air makes his head feel thick and slow, he feels dizzyingly hot and cold at once, fear a haze even the Force cannot clear. 

He hears his attacker speaking as if underwater, the sound sonorous through the painful pressure in his head and in his ears: a deafening noise that echoes in his skull, shouting, _Move, Kenobi, move!_ Obi-wan sucks in as much air as his compressed lungs permit, wills his limp body to crawl, heavy limbs twitching, fingernails scraping up ash, weak and sluggish with fear.

His pathetic attempt at freeing himself does not go unnoticed, and a snarl meets his efforts. His head throbs with renewed pain as the hand twisted in his hair pushes his face harder into the soot and grit of the scorched floor. The heavy body of his attacker shifts and the knee presses higher up his back, increasing the pressure on his spine and ribs. The movement sends a sharp jolt of pain shooting up Obi-wan’s neck and he gasps, chokes, his body lighting up with agony. 

His vision blurs.

For a short, terrifying moment, Obi-wan is _nothing_. Knows nothing but the Force, cavernous and tangible and violent. There is no burned husk of a house, no soot, no dirt. Pain is distant, a shallow cut amidst the mess of feeling in his head, flooding his senses with pulsating _awareness_. A sedate, thunderous beat speeding up to an abrupt finish. A cut-off cry, inaudible over the cosmic, moaning white-noise of the Force. 

\---

The dim and indistinct essence of the Force is nameless, fathomless. It thrums with an apex beat of drive and purpose.

The Force isolates and anchors the mind to the body all at once. Obi-wan feels his body, lying prone in the dirt, unharmed save for bruises and scrapes and fear. He feels nothing of his body. The dissonance is staggering in its intensity, devouring his focus and conscious thoughts alike.

Obi-wan feels sympathetic and curious, feels the Force scour through scorched earth, a gasping death rattle, his beloved bloodflowers. He feels ancient.

Alien.

\---

Obi-wan gasps into awareness, and promptly inhales dirt and ash. He chokes. His body is stiff, bones aching from prolonged stillness, but he manages to curl onto his side, coughing and spitting soot. His tongue is coated in it - from lying on the floor open-mouthed, presumably - and it takes a long, gritty moment to work up enough saliva to moisten his mouth and spit with some effect. 

It is a miserable moment.

His mind feels as dusty and unpleasant as the inside of his mouth, and the headache pounding away at his temples does nothing but add to the feeling of abject misery and desolation. It pools over and around him like stagnant water, a pallid shroud he can feel throughout his aching body. 

His aching, _free_ body.

Obi-wan startles belatedly, muscles seizing. He thrashes upright, heart beating wildly in his chest, body braced for the threat. He glances around the bones of his house, wild eyed and shivering, his gaze settling on the wet lump soaking into the ground.

 _Lumps_.

The body of his attacker, scattered in the dirt.

Obi-wan stares, creeping coldness spreading throughout his body. His ears start to ring. He wants to retch, wants to curl over his knees and sob. Instead, the cold calm settles over his mind and he slowly gets to his feet. His legs are steady as they carry him through his ruined home and out, to the burnt remains of years of work.

He calls the Force to himself and sets to digging, gauging a deep hole where crops used to be. Loose dirt fans out in front of him in a V, a damp arrow pointing to the meter deep hole. Deep enough for its purpose.

His ears keep ringing as he motions with clawed fingers toward his gutted house. With a jerky swipe of his hand, the bits of wall still standing collapse, and he grasps the lumps with the Force. They leave wet trails on the sooty ground as Obi-wan drags them out, one after the other. 

Obi-wan watches dispassionately, safe and _calm_ , as the lumps gather grit and dirt before dropping into the hole.

The grave.

He does not spare them more than a glance as they settle, throwing his arm out in a wide sweep that gathers all the disturbed earth back into the hole. A stiff pat with the Force firmly compacts the dirt, and Obi-wan steps back to survey his work.

The grave is the palest patch of field for kilometers around, scorched soil and plant debris having been mixed with unscathed earth brought up by digging. Obi-wan turns away from it as his calm falters and his knees begin to weaken, nausea crawling up his throat. He takes two steps away and thumps to the ground, arms around his knees and ears still ringing, his back to the grave, his home, and the wet trails in the grit.

He can picture it in his mind.

The blood is black under the red moon. 

\---

The calm stabilizes, eventually.

Much later, when the moon is dimmed by the rising sun. Obi-wan staggers to his feet, and gazes with the Force, beyond his hill of bloodflowers and further _further_ , to the nearest Agricorps outpost. It is empty but feels undisturbed. 

It is his destination and luckily, Obi-wan thinks as he quickly orients himself, he will be traveling light, as all his worldly possessions, including his speeder, have been burned beyond use. Along with years of work and effort. All he has left is himself, the Force and it's questionable boon of calm.

“Well, one does not look the gift horse in the mouth,” Obi-wan mutters hoarsely to himself, throat still dry, and determinedly starts walking. Hopefully the Force will tide him over for however long it will take to reach the outpost.

He does not fancy collapsing from thirst, hunger, and fatigue should its soothing illusion falter altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-wan is dissociating a tiny bit here. I know for me when I dissociate I kinda outwardly act normal? Even when stuff goes to shit. Hope this note clears that up.


End file.
